Blue Skies
by reneegriffiths
Summary: John is adjusting to life after the events of MadLori's Alone on the Water, when he gets a surprise visit.
1. Chapter 1

Seven months. It'd been seven months since everybody had gathered clad in black. Seven months since John Watson had stood among the inky surroundings of a dead funeral, last to leave that day.

John remembered that day, after everyone left and the sky was so blue. Just the bluest blue and there were so many clouds. He remembered going back to their flat, and reading all his papers. He remembered that first time he'd solved a case on his own, everyone around staring dumbfounded. He'd always remember, as long as he lived.

And seven months after Sherlock left him, John Watson was still alive. He was a new John Watson; he carried a part of Sherlock with him he never had before. He was a hybrid, a new species. But he was half a man trying to live out the lives of two.

John's daily routine now was a ghosted image of his life with Sherlock, a twisted sort of version where he was the detective, and Lestrade phoned _him_ for murders. He knew each of the 243 types of tobacco ash by heart now. Every morning out to a new body or note, every afternoon back to the flat, to update the blog, and then every evening to think of something to do with all his time left. He spent too many hours staring around at that room where he and Sherlock started so many adventures. He could waste away whole evenings just lost in a haze of thoughts too vague to recall or recount. One day he was glancing through a cheap paper but not reading anything. He never really read the papers anymore, he just sort of stared at them and thought. They were an excellent canvas for thoughts. Except when the words 'Sherlock Holmes' came across his vision. Every now and then a rumor came up about Sherlock in the papers, little nasty things for filler. But they were less common now, and slowly but surely, Sherlock Holmes was fading from the lips of the world.

John had learned not to mind the articles about Sherlock. It hardly crossed his mind and there wasn't really much of a stab of emotion along with it. He was used to it.

But they made him miss Sherlock; they made him miss Sherlock very much. He wasn't sure how one becomes used to missing someone. It seemed an impossible feat, as well as an undesirable one.

John Watson didn't want to stop missing Sherlock.

"Disgusting, isn't it?" came a voice from the doorway.

John started from his thoughts and looked up in awe. Standing at the door was a dark-haired woman with an unreadable face and all too readable clothing. She was just a little fuller than he remembered, but absolutely the same woman. The Woman. Standing at the door was Irene Adler.

"I-I'm sorry what. What are you doing here?"

"A fellow mourner can't stop for a visit? These articles that keep cropping up, they're terrible gossip aren't they?" Irene replied with a sly sort of expression that reminded John a bit too much of Sherlock.

"Uh no-I mean yes but what do you mean 'stop for a visit'? Correct me if I'm wrong but aren't you supposed to be dead? Mycroft—Mycroft said you were executed by a terrorist group."

"Oh don't be daft, he came for me, Sherlock. He saved me that night in the desert." Irene said, and John was surprised to hear the humanity in her voice as soon as she said Sherlock's name.

John held his temple, pressing his eyes closed and also drinking a large amount of tea at once in a classic defense of his to simply accept events and move on. He raised his head and said in a very exasperated way, "Okay. Okay. So you're alive, and Sherlock saved you and now you've just stopped in seven months after his death for a _visit_?"

"Yes well I lied about the visit part; it's actually more of a business venture."

"A _business venture_," John said incredulously. "What on earth kind of business venture could you have involving me?"

Irene gave a dry smile, a display of superior knowledge but not of any particular enjoyment. And then she said simply, "Really it would hurt the business to keep him, so I brought him here," after which she stepped to the side, revealing a little infant carrier, complete with baby.

A little ocean-eyed boy.


	2. Chapter 2

John stared at the little newborn in his little blue carrier, with his little blue onesie, his little dark curl, and his big, blue-green eyes. He was soundly asleep and clutching a little stuffed animal that resembled some sort of hound, and he had a little pacifier lolling out of his mouth. At this point it had begun to rain lightly, the fresh scent of the water coming in through the window, wetting the sill and filling the planter. John carefully set his mug down on his side table. He sat staring at everything, the room, the skull Sherlock used to talk to, the yellow face still painted on the wall, the rows of books, Irene, the rain outside the window, the little, tiny baby. He tried to take the scene in, and accept it and understand it but he couldn't.

"Irene, Irene what is that?" He asked, tired down to his empty core.

"That, John Watson, is a baby."

"Irene what is it doing here? What's going on?" John was shaking a bit, and his voice was thick, because he'd already answered the questions before he'd asked them.

"Do I really have to tell you?"

"Yes Irene, you do. I need you to tell me to my face." John said, subconsciously clasping his hands together.

"John, this is my," she paused slightly, falteringly before continuing, "This is my child, John. Mine and Sherlock's child."

That was too much for John. He felt nauseous and dizzy. His heart ached, to think of Sherlock and Irene. To not have known about them, for them to have gone that far. He remembered Sherlock's last moments, holding him in his arms and he remembered everything he'd wished they could have been. He remembered how much he'd been in love with Sherlock. And here was Irene with his _child_. He felt that sensation you get when you stand up too fast and get dizzy, and then passed out into the chair.

John woke up a few hours later. It was dusk now, low light coming in through the window over the chair where he lay. He got up and stretched, rubbing his forehead and wishing away his headache. He made some tea and came back to the living room. On the desk was a note he hadn't noticed earlier.

"Dear John,

Since you seem to require more time to handle this information, I've decided to leave you to it, and answer any questions here. I can't keep my baby with me John, you know my business. I can't raise a child, I'm not the mother sort. So I've decided to leave him with the person I know will love him like Sherlock would have. He's asleep in your bedroom now. I've already filled out the adoption forms for the both of us, and had them legally recognized. He's yours now, there's nothing you have to do.

Sherlock and I never had anything serious; just one night. I think Sherlock may have suspected that I was pregnant, but I never told him or saw him after that night; I never got the chance to tell him. But he told me once that if he ever did have a child, he'd name it after you.

So please take care of my little Hamish Holmes for me.

-I.A."

John stumbled to his bedroom, or rather Sherlock's old one, still clutching the note. Sure enough, the blue carrier was there next to a diaper bag full of changing necessities and a small box of baby boy clothes. The baby was inside the carrier sound asleep as Irene had written. As John looked down at him, he realized just how much the little boy did look like Sherlock. He had Sherlock's dark hair and the makings of his brow.

John didn't know what else to do. He cried.

He simply sat there and cried and didn't think anything because he couldn't. Mrs. Hudson came in hearing the noise, thinking that he was having an episode and might need some help. She was of course very surprised as she read the note John had halfheartedly dropped towards her; in fact she almost fainted herself.

The next day John phoned Lestrade and told him the story; Lestrade looked into it, and sure enough Hamish was legally John's. Lestrade warned John about forgery and he told John he could get out of the adoption if it was a fake signature. John gave some false excuse about the papers to effect that Lestrade turned a blind eye. He had Molly run blood tests and it was confirmed that Hamish was both Sherlock and Irene's biological child, and hospital records put his age at almost seven months to the day. He'd been born the day after Sherlock died, which was why Irene never came to see him before he died; She'd been in labor.

The media soon got a hold of the story and quickly the illegitimate child of Sherlock Holmes was the talk of the town. John was invited to numerous talk shows and bombarded with reporters and journalists. People were very desperate for a glimpse of the now infamous infant with John. Many women even claimed to be the mother. John ignored the cameras and the journalists and the shows, and he let it die down as quickly as it could. He had Lestrade make a single public statement, claiming that the mother was unknown, and no one had seen who'd left the baby at John's front door.

Sarah came over every now and then to help, and Mrs. Hudson acted as a surrogate grandmother. They set up a nursery in John's old bedroom, with blue walls and stars all over, just the bluest blue. Blue like the sky that day, after John had stood in the rainy street, so alone on the water.

Hamish had this beautiful white bassinette from Sherlock's mother, who told them it had in fact been Sherlock's and so John decorated with a bit of Sherlock flair. His beloved skull sat on a nightstand, and he lined a wall with books of Sherlock's for Hamish as he grew older.

Little Hamish himself was a thin child, like both his parents, and John was sure he looked exactly the same as Sherlock had when he was a newborn. Slowly John began to adjust to life as a father. Sometimes the baby made him sad, and sometimes it was hard to hold him, hard to know he was existent. A lot of complicated emotions were bundled up in that little blue blanket. But again sometimes, it seemed impossible for him to ever let the child go, to ever imagine having lived the rest of his life without Hamish, and without Sherlock all at once. In a way Hamish was already like his father, making John's life complicated in a manner that John sort of needed.

Irene surprisingly kept in touch. John could text her if he ever had questions about Hamish, but only then, and in exchange for constant updates on his health and his daily life.

The first year or so went quickly for John; Hamish grew up through the early, simple stages of life. His first word was 'dada' which Mrs. Hudson documented ceremoniously, as well as the first time he began to crawl. John noticed that Hamish developed quickly for a child; he'd been able to lift and turn his head when he was only a week or two old Irene had told them; he was able to recognize his surroundings early on, such as mirrors or reflective surfaces; his first words came early and he began to crawl at a young age as well. And absolutely everything reminded John of Sherlock; Hamish was the vision of his father.

That made john especially sad to think about. That made him wish for Sherlock more than he ever had before. Sometimes he could only think about how perfect Hamish would have been for Sherlock. How Hamish could have finally sealed that hole in Sherlock. How alone Sherlock wouldn't have been anymore.

Those were the times when John was the saddest. That baby wore melancholy like a coat. He was a sweet loving rain, the sort of heartache that is too beautiful not to love. He was the blue sky after the rain.


End file.
